The hard man weeps.

The farm was gone, taking the few tatters of optimism the war hadn’t stolen from him. He walked in a daze to the Te Kuiti Club. He had never been a drinker, but he needed to do something, anything to dull the pain and anguish that was consuming him. It was a cold day, but he didn’t notice the warmth of the open fire as he stepped through the doors. Half a dozen men stood at the bar, and several others sat at tables, their voices merging into a hum.
A barman with a huge walrus moustache smiled at him. “What’s your poison?”
“Whisky,” said Henry, fumbling in his pocket to find the cheque.
“You won’t be needing that,” said a familiar voice. “My shout.”
It was the bank manager. Henry stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend what was happening.
The bank manager paid the barman, passed Henry his drink and raised his glass.
“To better times,” he said.
Henry looked at him blankly, not sure if the man was taking the mickey.
“Nothing like a bit of good news in hard times Henry, and I don’t know how you did it, but well done.”
“Did what?”
“Oh, I see. Yes now, hmm, this is not the time nor the place. A bit unprofessional of me, just enjoy your drink.”
He left Henry with his whisky and wandered over to a table to enjoy his lunch.
As if in a dream, Henry left his drink untouched and made his way to the bank. Only one teller was on so he had to wait in the queue for several agonizing minutes before it was his turn to face the flustered clerk.
“I need to know my account balance.”
The teller looked up. “Sure thing Mr Needham.” After digging out a ledger, he found the section with Henry’s account details, ran his finger down a column and said “Your available funds are £27.15d”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mr Needham, you have those available funds.”
“But, are you certain?”
“Yes, your previous deposit was £87.30d. £60.15d was offset against your mortgage, leaving £27.15d in your current account.”
Henry thanked him and, after buying a few supplies at the goods store, started the long walk home, his mind a cauldron of thoughts. It was his brother, of that he was certain. But how did he know? It must have been Rebecca, she was always writing letters to his mother. The thought of them knowing about his failure embarrassed and humiliated him. But at least he still had the farm for another few months. He felt the cheque in his pocket and cursed. He’d all but given his breeding stock away. Hope and despair were his constant companions as he made the journey home. When he finally arrived, Henry knew what he had to do.